


S'more Amore

by dashery



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Baking, F/M, Fluff, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 12:49:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashery/pseuds/dashery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A <a href="http://promptbound.tumblr.com">Promptbound</a> prompt: Jane/Dave + disastrous cupcakes ❤</p>
            </blockquote>





	S'more Amore

“S’muffins,” he repeated, and stopped swinging his leg.

Jane nodded and, with her elbow, bodily scooted him down the counter to make room for her mixing bowl. Dave caught himself perfectly at the edge and started to pull his feet up, but she smacked his thigh with her Bowlbuster. “No feet on the counter, mister!”

He started breaking off pieces of chocolate instead. She let him. She’d bought extra for him. “I thought you were making cupcakes.”

“I am! That’s just what the recipe’s called. It’s sort of a blend between s’mores and muffins, I suppose,” she said, scuttling to the refrigerator for the milk. “Could you measure two and one fourth cups of flour into that bowl?”

“Still sounds like Smuppets,” he muttered, and Jane covered her grin and pretended not to hear him until something made a heavy, dusty _flump._

She turned around. Dave coughed, then held up the measuring cup victoriously. “Got it.” Two and one fourth cups of flour were in the cup. Three and one third were all over Dave. He looked up, lifted his shades a little, and tried to blow the flour off the lenses. It didn’t help.

Hoo, boy.

If kitchens had a natural predator, its name was _Davus stridericii._ He was a menace. He pinched chocolate chips. He ate marshmallows. _He didn’t wash his hands._ But worse than all this casual culinary terrorism was that, sometimes, he tried to be helpful.

Watching him wrestle with the batter and cupcake liners was like watching a tiny kitten chew the corner of her favorite edition of Agatha Christie's _Cards on the Table._ She had to shoo him away with a mop, of course, but no matter how stern she tried to be, the corners of her mouth kept squeaking up without her say-so.

“They kind of look like the Lumpy Space Princess had a bad lump day.”

Jane tried to bat him away from the oven. “And whose fault is that, Captain Lumpmeister?”

“Are you saying you don’t appreciate these lovely lady lumps?”

“I’d appreciate it a lot more if you moved your lumpy butt, Mister Strider!”

“Ouch.” He ducked away from her next swipe and flopped to the floor face-up, hands folded on his chest. “That was mortal, J.C. My lumps will never recover.”

Huffing, she crouched in front of the oven door and swatted him with one of her mitts. “You, young man, are patently ridiculous, and I don’t know why I have anything to do with you at all.”

“My good looks and animal magnetism.”

“Hrm.” She made a show of tapping her chin, tilted her head to one side. “Actually, I think it has rather more to do with those butt lumps of yours.”

He smirked a little as Jane pulled on her mitts and eased the oven door down. “My rump bumps.”

“Your plump dumpling crumpets.”

“Ump. Keep talking dirty to me, C.”

Any moment now, she thought. She drew the awkward, oozing, indeed very lumpy muffin-shaped catastrophes from the oven, and his gaze—he’d had to remove his flour-covered shades—followed like laser pointers, but he didn’t move. Not yet. But she knew: any second.

Jane deposited the tray on the counter and turned to close the oven.

She caught a quick movement that could only be described as _fwip._

“Owshit.”

Jane was already rolling her eyes when she looked back at Dave. He shook his burnt fingers out, grimacing, then stuck three of them in his mouth and frowned at her as if daring her to tell him off. If you can’t handle the heat, she considered saying, but the outline of his discarded shades still sat raccoon-like in the flour on his face. She found it incredibly distracting.

So instead of saying anything, she reached out and held his face between both her oven mitts, pressed a kiss to his floury forehead. “You,” she said, beaming, “are an absolute cupcake, Dave.”

The corners of his mouth squeaked up a little, too, and he flicked a curl out of her face. “Yeah, hoo hoo, Crocker,” he mumbled around his fingers. “I’m a regular M&M.”

“I prefer Kisses myself,” she said, and felt his cheek warm against her lips as the disastrous cupcakes cooled.


End file.
